


After the Battle

by tolieawake



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Thranduil is a loving father, aftermath of war, but nothing really graphic, father/son relationship, references to death, response to a prompt on the Hobbit Kink Meme, so there is the aftermath of violence in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolieawake/pseuds/tolieawake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of Five Armies - a moment between Thranduil and Legolas.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Response to this prompt on the hobbit kink meme:</p>
<p>Thranduil is not a Meanie-Mcmeanie<br/>I want a fic where he is not as evil and mean as he is in many prompts. I just him fairly decent, even a bit nice as he is in the book. Maybe interaction between him and the lake people after Smaugs visit? Or between him and Legolas?<br/>I just want some nice!Thranduil. Please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Battle

Death surrounds him. The cries of the dying, the stench of blood, the taste of copper on his tongue. Around him, soldiers move as though wraiths between the dead and dying. He barely spares them a glance - they are doing their jobs, that is all he needs to know.  


Long blonde hair whips behind him as he moves his head from side to side. There is blood and gore streaked in it, but he ignores it. It does not matter.  


The enemy has all fled or died, but they do not matter.  


In that moment, there is only one thing that matters. His eyes scan over the battlefield, his feet carrying him along it, swift and fleet and with an edge of desperation.  


This is not a skirmish within the borders of his realm. Not an attack against spiders or orcs, practiced many times (and, originally, under his tutelage). This is something entirely different. This is battle.  


And his son is so young.  


A figure moves towards him and he turns, blonde hair, blue eyes. His breath leaves him in a rush. It leaves his lungs aching and his eyes stinging.   


"Legolas," he breathes.  


It is only a matter of stepping forward, swift and sure, before he has his son in his arms, grip tightening, holding him there, holding him alive.  


"Ada," Legolas replies, burying his son in his father's shoulder for a moment. Then Legolas steps back and Thranduil's eyes narrows as he looks over him.  


The blue eyes are dulled, haunted. The skin is too pale, the luster dulled. There is blood tracing his hairline -  


"Are you hurt?" Thranduil demands.  


Wordlessly, Legolas shakes his head.  


Drawing him forward into another clasp, Thranduil wonders whether he will ever be able to let him go. But Legolas pushes back, eyes going to their surroundings.  


"I should help," he says.  


Thranduil purses his lips and frowns. He wants to tell him 'no', to disallow any further involvement on his son's part. But he is not only a father, he is also a king, and must think also of his people.  


"Do not do too much," he replies. "I would not have you faint from exhaustion. You have fought well and done our people proud."  
Legolas' eyes shine and his back straightens, but there is a question there. Reaching out, Thranduil smooths his hand over his son's face.  


"You have done me proud," he says.  


As Legolas departs, his steps are firm and stride even. He calls to those he passes, quickly becoming involved in the movements going on around him. Thranduil watches him go with a heavy heart. His son is so young, and yet so capable.  


Then he turns to those around him. The injured lie with the dead, men and elves and dwarves slowly recovering them and moving them away from the battlefield.  


Thranduil's eyes dim for a moment as he stares at a fallen soldier. His name was Elgothlan, and he had lived numerous lives of men as a faithful soldier. Without the battle, he would have continued to do so, until the world ended or they all sailed away. Death is not the way of the elves, so its pain is always fresh and sharp and unexpected.  


It is a pain Thranduil is all too familiar with.  


Tents are being erected for the injured, so he makes his way quickly over to them, removing his arm guards as he calls for water.  
There are injured to be tended, a battle to clean up after. It is the clean-up that always takes the longest.


End file.
